


In Memoriam

by theletterelle



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Grief, Loss, Memorials, Mourning, Post-Episode: s03e23 Insatiable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 06:10:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1334935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theletterelle/pseuds/theletterelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one knows how memorials get started. Flowers appear, pictures show up. There are wreaths and teddy bears and notes and candles, and the bits of memory increase until the spot is overcome. <i>We miss you. We will always remember you. Forever in our hearts.</i> But grief hurts, and no matter how many things join the pile, it will always hurt.</p><p>This time, it starts with balloons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Memoriam

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Never Forgotten](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1331920) by [CranApplePye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CranApplePye/pseuds/CranApplePye). 



No one knows how memorials get started. Flowers appear, pictures show up. There are wreaths and teddy bears and notes and candles, and the bits of memory increase until the spot is overcome. _We miss you. We will always remember you. Forever in our hearts._ But grief hurts, and no matter how many things join the pile, it will always hurt.

This time, it starts with balloons.

*

Rumors fly even before school starts. Scott McCall. Lydia Martin. That guy Aiden, or Ethan, or whatever. Stiles hasn’t been looking well. Has anyone seen Isaac Lahey today?

The announcement comes during homeroom. _Allison Argent._ A lot of people knew her. A lot of people didn’t. Elizabeth and Kevin didn’t, but they look at each other and know it’s time to get started.

“I’m so unprepared,” says Elizabeth. “I didn’t think it would happen again so soon. Erica, then Nick, then Vernon…”

“And Mr. Harris,” Kevin says.

Elizabeth doesn’t want to count him, because he was a dick, but they’d made a memorial for him anyway. Flowers in an Ehrlenmeyer flask, a picture of Einstein. She nods. “I thought we’d be done for the semester, at least.”

Kevin rips a piece of paper out of his notebook. It tears awkwardly, edges jagged. “Dammit.” He reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out a purple Sharpie. He always carries colored Sharpies, just in case. Elizabeth finds her nail scissors and begins to draw a heart to cut out. There’s a glue stick in her purse. Just in case.

They get hall passes and go out to the fence. The balloons are lonely. A breeze blows, and Kevin has trouble getting the sign to stay. “Here,” says Elizabeth, and unclips the flower barrette from her hair. That makes her feel better. A stupid cut-out heart isn’t enough to offer for a memorial.

They take a step back. The balloons look a little less lonely. “Good?” asks Elizabeth.

“Good,” Kevin says. They go back inside.

*

McCall isn’t in school, but it’s for him that Duncan tracks down each member of the lacrosse team and shakes money out of them. Greenberg hands him a twenty-dollar bill, then bursts into tears. Fucking Greenberg.

The roses are the most expensive the florist had.

*

Chris doesn’t want to do this. He goes to the home, he knocks on Gerard’s door, and he doesn’t want to do this. When the words come out, they sound hollow, completely unlike him.

Gerard sits for a long moment, black blood running down his chin. He coughs a couple times. Chris looks at the man, the only family he has left in the world, and wishes bitterly that it had been him instead.

“She was the best of us,” Gerard says.

“That’s true.”

“I’m sorry. I wish…” What Gerard wishes he doesn’t say. He wipes at the blood and wheels his chair to the desk in the corner of his room.

Chris is numb. He knows this is going to hurt worse than losing Kate, Victoria, and everyone else put together. He wishes the numbness would last forever. He dreads the wave of grief he knows is coming. He isn’t sure he’ll survive.

Gerard hands him a picture. It’s creased and worn, developed from a camera rather than a digital printout. “I gave her that bow for Christmas when she was fourteen. She took second place with it that year.”

“I remember,” Chris says.

“I was so proud.”

“I remember.”

“We had our differences.” It’s a massive understatement, and Gerard swallows before going on. “But she was my granddaughter. I was always proud.”

Chris nods. He puts the picture in his pocket.

*

Mariposa loved Allison.

Allison didn’t know, and would never have suspected. Mari herself isn’t even sure what that love meant, whether she wanted to be with Allison or wanted to be like her. All she knows is that Allison was one of the coolest people she has ever seen. She had been one of Lydia Martin’s group (popular, snobby, major assholes), but after Lydia went psycho, Allison never stopped being her friend, even when everyone else in the group dropped her. Allison was friendly with everyone, even that weird guy Isaac, even that weirder guy Matt (who was also dead, what the fuck).

Allison had knocked Mari down once in gym class, when Mari was guarding her and Allison went for the jump shot anyway. Allison had apologized over and over, and insisted on going with her to the nurse’s office (strained ligament; Mari had to wear a boot for a few weeks). Allison had always said hi to Mari after that. They weren’t actual friends, but Allison smiled at her anyway. 

When Allison’s mom died last spring, Mari had stuck a sympathy card in her locker. She’s pretty sure it was what Allison would have done in her place. She watched Allison come back to school with a determined look on her face, and never say a negative word.

More than anything, Mari wished that they could have been friends. If Allison had seen inside her, what a good friend Mari could be, they would have had such a great time together. Not sexually, Mari is pretty sure now. Just… friends.

Mari follows Allison’s example. Says hi to people she doesn’t know. Does nice things like compliment someone’s outfit or let them borrow pens. When she found Teresa crying in the bathroom because some jerk told her she looked like a cow, she hugged Teresa and told her she was beautiful and worth so much more than that dickhead would ever know.

Mariposa will do her best to be like Allison, but she’ll still miss her every day.

*

Lydia doesn’t go to school that day. Lydia may never go to school again. Lydia wants to call Allison and talk about how terrible she feels, and listen to Allison’s encouragement that she’ll get through this. And then she remembers that Allison isn’t there anymore. And she wants more than ever to call Allison for help. But there’s no Allison.

It would be easier if Lydia could believe in God. Any God. Someone who has a plan, who will make sure that things turn out okay in the end and bring everyone back together forever. But unfortunately, Lydia’s smarter than that. 

There’s no evidence. Bring a God to her, maybe she’ll worship. But what kind of God would put her or anyone else through this? It’s better for there not to be a God than that kind of God.

Allison doesn’t exist anymore.

Lydia picks up the picture frame from her bookshelf. She’s in her room. She’s standing at the fence with no memory of how she got there, and people are whispering. Lydia is used to whispering and stares. It doesn’t matter. None of these people matter.

She ties the frame to the fence, turns around, and heads toward home. She doesn’t know if she drove or if she walked. It doesn’t matter.

*

Greenberg knows he’s emotional. He even went through an emo phase in middle school, black eyeshadow and nail polish, before becoming more interested in sports than being introspective in his room. But he still feels things. He saw how happy Scott and Allison were before. He saw how depressed Scott was when Allison dumped him. He had always hoped for those two. They looked so right together.

He gave Duncan most of the cash he had on him, but he still has a little left for lunch. He goes to the convenience store and buys two taquitos, a Mountain Dew, and a carnation. A good share of the roses are his, but he wants to give something of his own. He goes back to school and tucks the carnation behind a sign. He wishes there was more that he could do.

*

 _This is not my fault_ , Stiles should be telling himself. He knows this is what everyone will tell him. _This wasn’t you, Stiles. This was a demon wearing your face. This was something no one could have controlled._

At first he had been incredulous that Allison would give someone like Scott the time of day. Then he’d been jealous that she’d taken up all Scott’s time, and that when Scott was with Stiles, all he could talk about was her. And then he’d given in and helped them out, because of Scott, and then because of Scott and Allison, and sometimes just because of Allison. He’d been impressed by her skills, and he’d admired her strength, and he was blown away by how tough she had turned out to be. She was so far from the girl who’d cried in terror that night in the school. She was a champion. She was a warrior. And then she was gone.

He squeezes the plastic Hawkeye in his hand. He had been going to give it to her for Christmas.

It doesn’t matter whether it was the nogitsune-as-Stiles or not. This happened because of Stiles himself. This is all. Stiles’. Fault.

*

Sheriff Stilinski follows Stiles to the fence. There’s a picture in his hand of his son, and his son’s friends. Stiles had put it in a frame last year when he’d been on an interior decorating kick that hadn’t lasted long. John threads the foldout stand through the chainlink. He should be sad. A powerful, amazing girl, cut down before she had a chance to show the world what she could do.

All he can feel is grateful that it wasn’t his son. And all he will later feel is terrified that next time, it will be.

*

There’s nothing left inside Scott. He gets out of the car and slams the door. There are flowers at the fence, signs, pictures. He notes them with detached interest. Allison would have appreciated them. Or maybe she would have just rolled her eyes and laughed, or set her mouth in that firm line that meant woe to whoever had done this terrible thing. He doesn’t know anymore. Maybe Isaac knows.

Mom is behind him. She rests a hand on his shoulder. Everyone else moves back to give him space. Maybe they know about the breakup; maybe they don’t. 

Scott takes a deep breath. He sets down the wolf and the rose. Rose for love, wolf for pack. Hunter or not, whether with him or with Isaac or with no one at all, she was pack. The stuffed wolf’s red eyes burn as bright as Scott’s own.

He won’t grieve now. Mourning can wait until later. He’s the alpha, and right now he has a job to do.

This isn’t over. Not yet.

*

Melissa hasn’t been religious since she spent the summer with Tia Guadalupe in Nogales when she was fifteen. Melissa had been confirmed and made her first confession like her parents wanted, and the family had gone to mass once a week, or every other week, or once a month when things were busy. But Tia had had her on her knees every morning and night, taken her to mass twice a week, confession three times, until Melissa thought she’d throw up if she ever had to hear Ave Maria again. For years after, all she remembered of that time was her frustration with Tia for forcing all this on her, and her parents for making her go down there in the first place to connect with her roots. When she got back, she told her parents she was through with the Church. They didn’t make much of a fuss.

Scott insists they go to the school to leave gifts for Allison. Melissa wants to do what he needs. That doesn’t explain why she slows and turns into the Safeway parking lot. “Just need to get something,” she tells Scott, who shrugs and looks down at the tiny wolf in his hand.

She walks through the ethnic aisle, past the canned coconut milk and the boxes of pad thai mix and the Taco Bell branded seasoning packets. She takes down a veladora from the top shelf. It costs three dollars.

When Scott has placed his remembrances at the memorial site, Melissa kneels and sets the candle down. She doesn’t light it-- too dangerous in this wind-- but closes her eyes for a minute.

"La luz de Dios nos rodea", she murmurs. "El amor de Dios nos envuelve. El poder de Dios nos protege. La presencia de Dios vela por nosotros. Dondequiera que estemos, Dios es. Amén."

She’s surprised she remembers.

*

All three of them visit the shrine. Kira’s parents put down white candles. White for mourning and death, white for purity of spirit. Kira tucks a white daisy behind a picture of Allison and her friends. She doesn’t really believe the bardo really exists, but if it does, she hopes this offering will help.

She frowns at her parents’ offerings. “Those candles are cream, not white,” she blurts out.

Her mom gives her a sharp look. “Do you really want to argue with me about the color?”

Kira bites her lip and shakes her head.

“Should the candle be lit?” asks Kira’s dad. “It’s kind of windy today.”

“It doesn’t matter,” says her mom wearily. When she straightens up, she looks like she could indeed be nine hundred years old.

Kira looks at the picture again. Allison was a hero, someone she had been proud to fight beside. “Good luck,” she whispers.

*

He never would have believed he’d be standing here.

They’d hunted his family for generations. They had almost succeeded in erasing the Hales forever. He never could have forgiven them, until he did. He never could have trusted them, until he did.

He wouldn’t have but for Allison. Over and over she proved herself, until Derek had no choice but to believe. They fought side by side more times than he can remember. Once he was convinced, he never doubted she had his back. 

She fought for what was right. She fought her family’s history and changed everything they stood for. Derek doesn’t fool himself that all Argents have followed her lead. But one has. And that one may make a difference.

Derek’s mouth twitches as he fastens the keychain to the fence. He’d found it in a random sweep under the couch, one of Cora’s things she’d left behind. Cora never said why she had it, but he could figure it out. Cora and Allison were fighters. Cora and Allison hadn’t sat back and expected a man to rescue them, and neither had Princess Leia.

*

_The person I’ll always love._

Isaac stares at the teddy bear he holds in his hand. It’s so ineffective.

_Did you want it to be someone else?_

Isaac thought she was going to kill him. Saw the arrow fly at him, and he had been grateful for her mercy. He hurt so much, and he was so scared, and now it would be over. But she’d saved him instead. She had died for it.

_I wanted it to be you._

Scott had howled, not like a wolf, but like the human he had been before. Isaac could only stare at her-- at her body-- _do you want to paint my body?_ \-- and refuse to believe it. If it wasn’t for the memorial at the fence, he’s not sure if he’d believe it now.

_I love you, Scott._

Isaac sets the teddy bear down next to the wolf, arranging it so the bear’s paw rests on the wolf’s back. He takes the photostrip, the one Scott had kept on his wall even after everything, and tucks it behind a picture of all of them. Scott’s eyes shine so brightly the camera couldn’t see his face. He looks so happy in the framed group shot; all of them do. Isaac does.

He gets up and punches the fence.

The chain link has too much give, but he punches anyway, again and again until he hits the pole, and that’s better. It’s hard and it’s strong and it shatters the bones in Isaac’s hand, so he hits it again. Again. His knuckles are bleeding. His hand is swelling. He won’t wait to heal.

“No,” he says, and “No,” he shouts, and “No,” he screams. He tries to punch with his other hand and only then does he realize that someone’s holding him tightly, his arms pinned to his sides, someone powerful enough to handle even a werewolf’s strength. Isaac turns to fight, sees who it is, and falls apart in Derek’s arms.

“Not again. Not again. It should have been me this time. Why wasn’t it me?”

Derek holds him.

*

Greenberg had been the one to tell him. So really, he should blame Greenberg for this. Coach has always believed in shooting the messenger.

He sees the archer action figure-- Nighthawk or Hawkwind or whatever-- and his hand goes to his stomach. Stab wounds don’t get stitches. He has to change the dressings four times a day, and sheets, forget about it. He’ll have to buy new ones.

“She was a nice girl,” he says when he lays the bouquet down by the archer. He’s pretty sure she’s why McCall suddenly shone at lacrosse, so he owes her for that, if nothing else. “This is a damn shame. A damn shame.”

He shakes his head and walks away.

*

Danny goes home and calls Jackson. Jackson answers and sounds irritated. “I don’t have the money for international minutes, Danny.” His parents have kept him on a short allowance since moving to London. Jackson bitches about it every time he and Danny talk.

“It’s important. I’ll Skype you,” Danny says. He opens his laptop and in a few seconds Jackson pops up.

“What’s going on?” Jackson asks.

Danny can’t think of another way to say it. “Allison’s dead.”

Jackson sits for a second, and Danny wonders if it’s lag. Then “What?” Jackson says.

“Allison,” says Danny. “I don’t-- I’m not sure how. They announced it at school.”

Jackson sits still for a lot longer than lag could account for. “Does Lydia know?” he finally says.

“I guess so.” Danny feels strange, far away and here at the same time. “She wasn’t in school today. But she has to know.”

“Was McCall there?”

Danny shakes his head. “Why?”

“No reason,” Jackson mumbles. Danny’s monitor makes it look like his face has gone gray.

“I don’t-- I’m not sure what to do. If there’s going to be a funeral or not, or if her dad will want any of her friends there or anything. I was going to give some flowers.”

“Roses?”

Danny laughs. It’s not a happy laugh. “Please. Roses are so played. Tulips, duh.”

“You’d know better than me.” Jackson is trying to sound normal, but Danny’s not fooled. “Do you need me to come out there?”

“I don’t know? Probably not. She and I were friends, but--” _But you don’t want to come back._ “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be okay.”

Jackson nods, his gaze slipping off for a minute. Then, “Hey. I’m gonna send you something, okay?”

“Yeah, go ahead.” Danny’s email pops up with a blank message. He opens it. Opens the attachment.

“I took it when Lydia and I were still dating,” Jackson says. “We all went out for dinner at Christos when it opened. She--” Jackson swallows. “She was a good person, y’know?”

“I know,” Danny says.

“So, like. Print it out and frame it for me, okay? You pick out the frame.”

“I wouldn’t trust you to pick out a frame.”

“That’s why I asked you.”

“You mean told me.”

“Just do it, numbnuts.” 

It surprises a sad little laugh from Danny. “Yeah. I will. Miss you, man.”

“Me too,” Jackson says. “Um. Tell McCall I’m sorry.”

“I will.”

*

It’s like the fence bloomed overnight. Bouquets. Pictures. Stuffed animals and candles and balloons. Chris stands there and stares. He’s seen roadside memorials before, crosses and wreaths and signs nailed to the fatal tree or telephone pole, and distantly noted them before letting his mind go to something else. Now Allison’s face is staring out at him, and he can’t reconcile the two situations.

Melissa told him, and he’s grateful to her for that, in the distant way that he can feel gratitude. It’s good that he knows. It’s good that someone did this. Allison has a lot more friends than he realized, and he doesn’t know how that happened, because she certainly didn’t inherit any social aptitude from him or Victoria. Maybe everyone saw how special she was. He hopes so. She deserves that.

He would bury his silver bullet with her, but the Argents have always cremated their dead. There are too many nefarious ways for a body to be used. 

He can’t think of her as a body. She’s his child. She was a baby, a toddler, a seven-year-old learning to ride without training wheels. He took her baby teeth from under her pillow and left her silver dollars. She was ten and angry about moving again; she was twelve and brought home straight As; she was thirteen and could hit a bullseye at sixty meters.

She was sixteen and had a smile like sunshine. She was seventeen and the best student he’d ever had.

She was his child. She is his child. She will always be his child.

He clips the picture of her with Gerard’s bow to a sign. He leaves his bullet on the stone by the fence, next to the archer. He touches the arrowhead in his pocket. Later, he’ll come back and leave it here where it belongs, but he can’t let it go right now.

The wave is coming. Soon it will swamp him. He leaves before it does.

*

The sun is rising, and Peter is carrying balloons.

He knows. He won’t tell anyone how, but he knows.

He went to Beacon Hills High. He’s seen how they remember the ones who fall. He’s just going to kick-start it a little. He ties the balloons to the fence and lets them drift up to their full height. Stands back to observe. They bob in the wind. They seem happy.

He breathes a long sigh. “She wasn’t Kate,” he says, and walks away whistling.

**Author's Note:**

> So much love to CranApplePye, who made the beautiful graphic that is so awesome the official Teen Wolf Tumblr reblogged it.
> 
> I made myself cry with this one. God, y'all.


End file.
